The Mother We Share
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: The world had ended three days ago. Mycroft hadn't seen it coming. The business meeting had been simple enough. Keep the comments safe and polite, and no one would get hurt. But the representative of Turkey had made one comment too many about the Russian representative's plans, and the world had gone to hell. When it was all over, Mycroft and his brother were the only ones left.


((This story was inspired by the song The Mother We Share by Chvches. If you can, listen to it sometime.))

* * *

The world had ended three days ago.

Mycroft hadn't seen it coming. The business meeting had been simple enough. Keep the comments safe and polite, and no one would get hurt. But the representative of Turkey had made one comment too many about the Russian representative's plans, and the world had gone to hell.

Countries fell. Cities were destroyed. People were killed.

When it was all over, Mycroft and his brother were the only ones left.

* * *

The world had ended three days ago.

The day hadn't been that eventful. No cases. John out doing the shopping. Sherlock was about to place the fourth patch to his arm when the bomb dropped and London began to be torn down. More bombs, fire, screams, and Death. Sherlock fled 221B, retreating to the underground where he knew he'd be at least halfway protected.

The sewers were abandoned.

Sherlock stayed underground for hours as the explosions and turmoil passed. He sent a final total of seventy three texts to John, who had been out getting strawberries (idiot, Sherlock thought. He should have stayed in the flat) per Sherlock's request.

_Brother. –MH_

Sherlock's internal flame of hope was quickly extinguished by the realization that it was, in fact, Mycroft that had contacted him.

_I'm underground. –SH_

Seventy four texts sent to John.

Seventy five.

Seventy six.

* * *

Sherlock was alive. This was good.

Similar accounts had been popping up all over the world- frantic reports of distress signals until the inevitable.

Mycroft was left.

He needed to get to his brother.

"We're the only ones left, Sherlock."

"This is your doing?"

"Not directly, no."

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, sending spirals of steam into the chilly night air. London was silent, a ghost town. Nothing was lit, save for the occasional lamp post. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. Seventy seven.

"But you had a hand."

"Essentially."

"Is there no one else?" Sherlock asked, meaning _is he alive?._

"No one," Mycroft reaffirmed. "We're alone."

Silence. London, which had always had a steady hum, a living, breathing rhythm, fell silent and dead.

Sherlock was still for a moment before he fell forward. Mycroft's hands cradled his head, and the brothers stood there, in the middle of what had once been London, together.

* * *

"What are we going to do?"

"There's nothing we _can _do, Sherlock. Nothing's left."

"Surely there must be-"

"No."

The word cut through whatever Sherlock had been planning on saying and the younger Holmes brother stilled, staring at the table silently. Mycroft had brought him to his "office", which had surprisingly still remained standing.

Seventy eight.

"He's dead, Sherlock."

"I know that," Sherlock snapped, scowling at his brother.

Seventy nine.

"You couldn't have done anything."

"I asked him to go."

"Sherlock-"

"No."

Mycroft sighed, surveying his younger brother. Insanity was silent and deadly, indeed.

Eighty.

Eighty one.

* * *

The gun lay cold and silent on the table. Sherlock eyed it warily.

"What do you expect me to do?" he asked, eyes flickering up to meet his brother's.

"Consider it," Mycroft replied, evenly.

Ninety four.

"Sherlock," Mycroft pressed, leaning forward, hands coming together. "There's nothing out there. No one out there."

"I know that," Sherlock snapped.

Ninety five.

"You can't keep doing this."

"I can do what I like."

"Consider it," Mycroft repeated, standing and leaving the room.

One hundred and fifteen.

* * *

Sherlock left Mycroft's office building and traveled around the city.

The smoke from the explosions kept the heat in. The stench of Death hung in the air, a constant reminder.

For the first time, Sherlock walked down the long stretch of road towards Tesco's.

One hundred and sixteen.

Cans boxes, bags, and bulk lay scattered in the ruins of the store.

One hundred and seventeen.

Bodies were strewn across the wreckage, some whole, some in pieces. Sherlock observed, with distaste, the remains of a woman who must have, at some point, been alive and running a string of lovers along behind her.

John.

John lay sprawled across the floor, eyes still open. Moldy strawberries were strewn over the ground near his head, and his skin looked waxlike, so pale and so dead.

Sherlock left the store.

* * *

"I've considered it."

"And?"

Silence. The scrape of metal across a wooden surface. A small sigh of defeat.

"I'm following you."

"I know."

"… I'm sorry."

"I know."

One hundred and eighteen.

A gunshot. A clatter on the ground. A thud of a body hitting the floor. A drawn in breath.

More scraping of metal against wood.

Another shot.

Silence.


End file.
